O words which fall like sommer deaw on me,
O breath more sweete, then is the growing beane,
O toong in which, all honyed likoures bee,
O voice that doth, the Thrush in shrilnes staine,
Do you say still, this is her promise due,
That she is myne, as I to her am true.
Gay haire more gaie then straw when harvest lyes,
Lips red and plum, as cherries ruddy side,
Eyes faire and great, like faire great oxes eyes,
O brest in which two white sheepe swell in pride:
Joyne you with me, to seale this promise due,
That she be myne, as I to her am true.
But thou white skinne, as white as cruddes well prest,
So smooth as sleekestone-like, it smoothes each parte,
And thou deare flesh, as soft as wooll new drest,
And yet as hard, as brawne made hard by arte:
First fower but say, next fowr their saying seale,
But you must pay, the gage of promist weale.